Page 55 of Delicious (Delicious #1)
Chapter Two
Rémy
T he kitchen feels different without Jack here. It’s quieter, too. Normally, by this time through the dinner service, he’s sitting on the wooden stool opposite me, dipping spoon after spoon into a ganache or pastry cream.
“Just one more taste, to be sure it hasn’t spoiled in the last few seconds,” he’d say. The memory brings a smile to my lips and a tear to my eye.
This place will never be the same again. And what’s worse, I have no idea what it will be, because while I’m so honored that he thought to leave me part of Buxton Estate, he also left it to his nephew, Nate. I remember playing with him in the summers he spent here as a child, and my stomach does a flippy thing as the images surface. I may have had a little crush. But that was all it was. Maybe it could have been something, if we had continued to get to know one another better. But he stopped visiting during the summer and definitely hasn’t been here in the last three years since I made the move to the US.
While he may have been content to leave this place behind him, I couldn’t wait to get back here. And now Buxton Estate has become my home.
I was born in the States, or so I’m told, but grew up in France with my very proper French mother and father. They both worked hard. My father is a bank manager for one of France’s oldest banks, and my mother teaches ballet. Neither of my parents could take eight weeks off work during the summer, and a trip abroad was a good way for me to perfect my English and gain what they referred to as real-world experience. I was eight the first time I traveled here. I didn’t care what they called it. I called it an adventure on a plane to stay with my favorite person in the world. Aunt Seline.
She moved to the States to get married after falling in love with the former groundskeeper of the estate, my uncle Vernon. She worked here as a maid for almost thirty years, but now she manages the whole housekeeping team, six in total, seven if you count the new groundskeeper, which he won’t, but she definitely will.
Buxton Estate is special. It’s been in the care of a Buxton for generations; Jack was born here. Or out in the fields beside the large oak, as he used to claim. Surely that has to mean something to his nephew. But what if it doesn’t?
I try to distract myself by working. The kitchen is always where I find myself happiest. And this one is perfect. It used to be an old butler’s pantry, set off to the side from the main kitchen. It was being used mostly as another storeroom, but when my desserts started to encroach on Chef’s bench space, Jack had it cleared out and I was free to make it my own.
There was already an old marble counter against the left wall, with an inbuilt farmhouse sink under a window that looks out to the front drive. The counter continues along the back wall and partly around to the right as well, and while the marble is old, it’s also perfect for tempered chocolate.
When the Morris place a few miles up the road was sold, Jack found out the new owners were pulling down the main house, so before they could get in there, we were lucky enough to pull out their old kitchen island counter and oak shelving. Now they live here, with me, in this tiny room of sweet perfection. Hmm, I should get a sign made to put up on the doorframe to my space.
The island was a nightmare to get through the door. Chef was adamant it was too big for my small area, but I think he was just hoping I would take his smaller steel bench and he’d gain this prized gray marble beauty. But I was going to do whatever it took to make it work, and it does. True, it takes up about half the floor space, but with it set to the left and closer to the entry into my area, once I’m behind it, it’s perfect.
A scattering of rocks under tires draws my attention, and out the window, I spot a silver Dodge slowly moving down the drive, nearing the house. I can’t make out the person behind the wheel, but it must be Nate. His email said he’d be arriving this week, and we don’t have any more real guests due to check in until tomorrow.
The timer chimes, and I pull the sheets of sponge from the oven on the side wall, slip them into the cooling racks and am surprised to find the car still out front when I’m done. He better not park there.
I’m contemplating going out and telling him to park around the back like the guests do when the tires start to turn again and he’s moving on. Good.
First impressions matter, and while Jack may not have been great at staying on top of all the upkeep of the old place, the front was painted a few years ago and the groundskeeper tends to the border hedges daily. They run either side of the driveway in an arch until meeting the steps up to the front door. That is what we want people to see, not an old Dodge. And sure, we don’t have anyone checking in today, but dinner service will be in just over an hour and we have a few extra reservations from people staying at places nearby.
It’s amazing what social media has done for this place. Well, that, and a lucky visit from a food critic last year. His wife booked their stay at Buxton Estate last Christmas.
Chef Henry almost died when he found out the guy he’d been cooking for was a world-class food critic. But he didn’t have anything to worry about. They loved the food, but I guess if we’re being honest, they loved my dessert more. I wanted to do something really special for the holidays, so I started playing with sugar. Determined to know how I could make a dome, like on a snow globe, I worked on it for days, sure it would make the perfect holiday dessert. And it did.
On the base, I created a layered spiced rum cake with hazelnut buttercream and coated it in a dark chocolate ganache. Etched to look like a wooden base, it was chilled slightly before I added a mossy scene out of apple foam with three chocolate Christmas trees set in the middle dusted with powdered sugar like snow. Once the dome was on, I piped the edges with more buttercream to hide the seam and served it with a tiny hammer tied with a Christmas bow. Hmm, I should do them again this Christmas.
We had a rush of bookings after his review, and now I’d say we have a steady run of bookings. Well, not steady exactly, but enough that it keeps us going.
Tonight’s dessert is one of Jack’s favorites. A lemon cheesecake rose. The bases are half rounds filled with a lemon curd jelly that I’ll turn upside down onto the plate before piping the cool whipped cheesecake mixture around it in petals. A touch of gold and lemon zest will finish it off and hopefully delight our guests.
I know it delighted Jack. How has it already been almost a month since his passing?
I couldn’t get away for the reading of the will. With Jack gone, I’ve been making sure everyone has what they need so the place can keep running.
They sent the paperwork with a paralegal a few days after they met with his sister and nephew. The paralegal sat with me while I signed next to every yellow tab they’d placed, and to be honest, I could have been signing away my soul for all I knew. But it’s done now. Or at least, it is for now.
The lawyer implied on the phone that Nate wasn’t keen to keep things going, and judging by the valuation in the paperwork, I’m in no position to buy out his share, but maybe I can convince him to let me run it, and he can just take his percentage of any profits.
But could I run it? I was learning the ropes already with Jack, helping handle many of the things he did to keep the place running before he passed. I have been wondering lately if he knew he was nearing his time. Is that maybe why he first broached the subject of me helping to manage the place? He’d said he saw the same love for the estate in me that he had, and it’s true. But I never thought it could one day truly be mine. I’m not a Buxton. But to Jack, I was treated like a son. And for that, I am forever grateful. Now I need to do whatever I can to convince his nephew to keep this place going, because if the Morris place is anything to go off, selling would mean the destruction of this house, and I couldn’t bear to see it lost to a pile of rubble as if it was never here.
The door to the main kitchen opens and Lilah hurries inside, closing it behind her and holding it shut against her back. I almost laugh. Lilah is not the person you want manning the door if you actually want to keep anyone out. She’s a tiny thing, maybe five feet, and has bouncy dark hair that she curls in an old-fashioned sort of way, perfectly suiting the feel of the estate. We hired her shortly after the review came out as a part-time concierge, helping on Friday evenings and on weekends.
She’s also my best friend.
“Haven’t I told you not to be running in here like an excited child? Chef Henry will have you if he catches you,” I tell her, and she scoffs.
“Haven’t I told you to wear your toques when you’re chefing? Those curly blond locks might be gorgeous on top of that irritatingly perfect French head, but in someone’s souffle, not so much.”
“It’s too hot. I’ll put it on when I’m assembling. I promise,” I lie. I am perfectly capable of ensuring my hair stays out of the food without the toques.
“But you look adorable in it. Don’t you want to look adorable for all the eligible men who might come to stay? I mean, you’ll always look adorable. Except what is that on your face? When did you last shave?” she asks with a frown.
“A few days ago, why? Don’t you like it?” I ask, brushing my fingers over my slight scruff. “I thought it made me look more…dashing.” I pick up one of the large metal spoons and try to take in my reflection on the convex surface. The slight scruff makes the angles of my jaw even more prominent, and the cleft in my chin and above my lip appears deeper. Overall, I think it makes me look more mature.
“I could never date a man with stubble on his face. It’s clean-shaven or full soft beard for me, but you do you. Oh, wait. Please tell me we are not on your way to a full beard. I’ve seen those beard nets chefs have to wear. There is nothing sexy about a beard net.”
I shake my head. “Did you storm in here to critique my appearance, or was there something else you wanted?”
“Oh, right,” she says, looking behind her for a second as if she can see through the door at her back. “He’s here.”